


A Fork in the Road

by Aipilosse



Series: Fëanorian Week 2021 [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Choices, Fourth Age, Gen, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-21 20:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30027654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aipilosse/pseuds/Aipilosse
Summary: Celegorm, returned from Mandos, faces a decision
Relationships: Aredhel & Celegorm | Turcafinwë
Series: Fëanorian Week 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208312
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	A Fork in the Road

Celegorm walked through the sunlit woods, realizing how long it had been since he felt alive. He had been dead for many ages, dwelling in the dark of Mandos, where all was silence and muted colors, but even before his death, he had not truly lived. He was reminded of parasites and their hosts, driven by a foreign mind to their own destruction.

He shook himself slightly. These were not thoughts for today. What had kept him in Mandos had been this very feeling — that everything after the Oath was done by a creature apart from Celegorm, a fictitious persona that allowed him to guiltlessly do deeds he thought himself incapable of before. Every drop of blood, every act of violence, every drop of whispered poison was something he chose. But the world changes, and the Valar with it, and there was more pity and mercy than the sages told.

Now Celegorm lived again, traveling through the woods he had hunted in before the first rising of the sun and moon, and it was springtime. 

There was a fork in the road; both paths led to regret. To the left: a mother abandoned, her pain ignored in his vengeance and greed. To the right: an old friend, one he might have saved, her trials darker than his own. Welcome was not certain in either direction, but he had learned from long, slow, dull regrets that forgiveness was only obtained through seeking it. 

He wished he had someone to talk to, someone to ask which direction he should go, but he was alone. 

As he stood, torn by the choice, he heard a clear voice through the trees. It was a song of celebration, an ancient hymn to Oromë, praising Him for a successful hunt, the bounty of the wood, and the strength of the hunter’s arm. 

The singer rounded the corner just behind him and stopped, the triumphant note dying in her throat. Celegorm turned.

“Írissë.” She sat on her horse, mouth open, and eyes wide. She looked so like the Írissë he had known of old that his heart ached. Her hair was still in long braids, she carried a hunter’s bow, and she still held herself like a princess. She no longer wore white, but her clothes were no more practical; instead, her dress looked like a riot of peacock feathers over riding trousers, brilliant and glimmering in the sunlight. Despite her clothing, she had been successful: a deer carcass was strapped to the back of her horse.

“Tyelko.” She dismounted and walked towards him cautiously, as if he would vanish in the wind. 

Celegorm stood frozen for a moment, faced with the chance to apologize for all the ways he had failed her. The moment passed. Celegorm threw his arms open wide.

“Fairest and most fortunate cousin! Long have I languished in the Halls, but now I have returned to grace your home with my presence.”

“You absolute ass,” Írissë said, and ran into his open arms.


End file.
